


In the club

by janescott



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-23
Updated: 2010-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:26:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For my kink bingo square: anonymity. A night out for Tommy and his friend Mia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the club

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by magenta &lt;3  
> AU. My muse decided that Tommy is deaf in this fic.  
> These boys do not belong to me.

Tommy closes his eyes and puts his hands flat on the bar. He can feel the rhythmic thump of the bass under his fingertips, and he knows the music has to be _loud_.

He feels a touch on his shoulder, and inhales a familiar scent – something like strawberries, or peaches in summer, with a smoke-dark undercurrent of whiskey. He opens his eyes and smiles as Mia puts a shot glass down in front of him.

He offers a quick smile of thanks, and picks up the glass, cool under his fingers.

She nods, taking a drink out of her own glass, her red lipstick making a smudge on the edge of it, and turns to lean against the bar, her eyes roaming the club, seeking, and searching. Tommy joins her, after knocking back his shot, feeling the alcohol burn warm down his throat. Mia puts her arm around him and they watch the bodies on the dance floor for a while.

These nights are Tommy's favourites: the club is full; a press of bodies on the dancefloor, all moving to the same beat that Tommy can feel in his body, up through his legs, and suddenly he needs to _move_. Mia catches his restlessness and grabs his hand, pulling him toward the dancefloor.

He loses her early on, in the crowd, but catches glimpses of her tattoos under the lights as she dances, her head thrown back. Tommy grins and closes his eyes, because it's the best way to feel it; the music. He finds the beat easily enough, the thump-thump-thump of the bass reverberating through his body like a pulse.

He's barely moving, just letting the beat, and the bodies move him; loving the fact that – apart from Mia – no one here knows who he is. No one knows his story, or his name, or anything about him.

He's just another body in the crowd.

It's _freeing_ in a way all of the other highs Tommy's ever tried aren't, and when he feels hands on his hips – broad, warm hands, he registers before opening his eyes – he automatically leans into the touch.

The guy is tall; lean without being skinny, and his presence is … solid. Tommy likes that. He can lean on that for an hour or so. He sees black hair; eyeliner, eyes that may be blue or gray, and a generous, smiling mouth. The guy is saying something – a name, maybe, but Tommy shakes his head and points at his ear.

The guy nods – assuming, Tommy knows, that Tommy means the music is too loud for talking - and they both move closer to each other at the same time. Tommy slides his arms around the guy's neck and arches in as close as he can, tilting his head up, even as long arms wind around his waist, and he feels warm hands splaying across the small of his back.

Tommy makes an appealing picture he knows, vanity aside: his long, blonde fringe is falling over his forehead, just _begging_ to be pushed back and played with, his mouth is half-open and his eyes a little lowered so his lashes fan out over his cheeks. He presses hard against the guy, closing his eyes again, and inhales sweat and cologne and _heat_.

_Perfect_.

Tommy's content to stay pressed against the solid body, hot against his own skin; burning through his shirt. The guy can _move_, his hips swaying in time to the unheard beat in Tommy's head, and he goes with it easily; content to follow the night as it unfolds; as the guy leans down and presses his lips – warm, and sweet with the taste of whatever he's been drinking tonight, and smoky with the fainter taste of weed, no more than a fading echo – against Tommy's.

Tommy opens up easily, digging his fingers into the thick hair at the back of the guy's head. His hair is heavy with product, but Tommy just keeps pushing at the strands as the kiss turns filthy and demanding, the beat of the music that he'll never hear thrumming through his body.

He staggers out of the club about an hour later; a bruise coming up on his neck; his pants sticky and the music still pulsing through his veins. Mia's right behind him; she's drunk, and laughing her rich, loud laugh, which echoes on the night air.

She turns her face to him – her signing gets sloppy when she's drunk – and says "Good night?"

Tommy half-turns back to the club; seeing a tall figure silhouetted in the open door, watches as he seems to stare at Tommy for a moment. The figure half-raises a hand, before turning and walking away, in the opposite direction.

Tommy turns back to Mia and nods, grinning wide.

Club nights like this are his favourite thing.


End file.
